Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  He rose and took the letter. "Thank you," he rasped. Damn, he could do with a drink. His throat was parched from her coursing heat, but he didn't want to remove the sweet spice that lingered. Or perhaps he could refresh himself and then wager her double or nothing for another round?

  As he turned the letter over in his hands, he dared a glance at Ianthe. A languid smile lit her face. Her hair was dishevelled, her bodice was pulled halfway down to where it just caught and rested precariously on the edge of her nipples.

  She was glorious. No wonder the gods wept when the ancient Ianthe died, if she was anything like the present incarnation. She held his gaze and licked her lips, causing him to groan. She was the embodiment of barely-contained raw desire and his body surged anew. Now he understood the power a courtesan could command over nobles and princes. Such women knew the weapons at their disposal and how to wield them over men to devastating effect.

  "News?" She ran her hands down her bodice and circled her bosom, tracing patterns that danced over silken flesh and fabric.

  "What?" He couldn't think; the blood needed to formulate ideas and words seemed to have flowed in another direction. Even the wolf sat silently within him, tongue lolling as he basked in the moment.

  Her smile turned wicked and knowing as she gave a throaty chuckle. Was there anything as delicious as a woman exercising her feminine power? He could only stare and blink as she pulled up her bodice, concealing the majority of the enticing view, but not the entirety of it, thankfully. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to push the escaped curls back toward the loose bun.

  "The letter?" she murmured.

  The blood stopped pounding in his ears and his ability to think slowly returned. Once he dared take his eyes off Ianthe, he flicked the seal open and scanned the page. As he read the words, his heart dropped. "It's about Alice."

  "Your friends have found her? Is she alive?" She rose from the chair on slightly unsteady legs.

  His gaze met hers. She looked so expectant, how could he dash her hopes? "Aster has found an Alys Sheffield, whom she believes is most likely Alice Sheppard. The dates and physical description match."

  Ianthe frowned. "Someone altered her name? Why?"

  "Perhaps to disguise her identity." Or, he thought, more likely to disguise what had become of her.

  "Where is she, in London? If so, we must go at once." She headed for the door, no doubt formulating a plan in her head as she walked.

  He folded the letter, placed it in his pocket, and reached out for Ianthe as he said the single word: "Bedlam."

  Her eyes widened. She took a misstep and then she tumbled into his arms. A sob broke free from her throat as he cradled her to him. He held her against his chest as she whispered, "No."

  How could one of her spiritual sisters end up in the hospital for the insane? At least the woman was alive; did that mean the soul eater drew the strength but not the essence of his mistresses, and the others would also be found alive? That was a question for when he saw Aster. Meanwhile, Quinn rubbed Ianthe's back and offered the only solace he could, his presence wrapped around her.

  After a long minute, she shook her head and was composed enough to speak.

  "Aster must be mistaken. Alice was unwell physically, not mentally." She still clung to him, her fingers curling in the fabric of his jacket.

  He couldn't blame her denial, for who would want to end up in Bedlam? Everyone knew of the reputation of the place and it would not be an easy visit. While the hospital was trying to amend its horrid reputation, it was still a place of spectacle and degradation. At the weekends, you could pay an admission fee and stare at the lunatics and deformed Unnaturals, much like one might go look at the bears and tigers in the zoological gardens.

  How had Alice ended up in there, under a slight variant of her true name? He wondered what game Hoth played. At least this woman had been found. Aster and Ewan were still digging into the viscount's past and trying to find five other young women he had patronised over the last decade. Alice might hold the key to discovering their fates. Even better, she might know of Hoth's treacherous activities and provide the lead the Wolves so desperately sought. So many questions, and the answers might be locked in a mind no one could access.

  Quinn cupped Ianthe's neck and stroked his thumb over her throat. "I can go on my own, if you prefer, and ascertain who the woman is first." And check her condition, in case she is chained like a wild animal. Quinn couldn't say those words aloud.

  Ianthe stood with her spine a little stiffer and a determined light in her gaze, although she chewed her bottom lip, as though not quite certain of her resolve. "No. I must see for myself. There are things I need to ask and only Alice knows the answers."

  Exactly how he felt. There was much to be learned, but the problem seemed to be asking the correct question. He had tried Would you marry me? and she laughed and dismissed him. While part of him knew this wasn't the right time to tackle the issue again, another part of him knew that once he walked out the parlour door, he might not walk back in. This was his last day, when he desperately wanted it to be the first of thousands to follow.

  The sense of honour that drove him to help Ianthe find her friend now waged war with his very personal mission and self-interest. He wanted to lean on the door and not let her leave until he had laid all his feelings at her feet. Then he saw the look in her eyes. The strength in her steel gaze was tempered by the slight trembling of her lip as she worried about the young woman. Blast it. At least one of them could find some answers today, and he would continue his fight afterwards.

  Quinn opened the door and called for Perkins. The man went out into the street to summon a carriage, while Sarah fetched a bonnet and a spencer for her mistress. When she returned, the abigail raised her eyebrows at Quinn, and her gaze glinted with suppressed humour.

  "About time," she muttered as Ianthe's hair was smoothed and tucked up under a bonnet, and a short lilac spencer draped over her shoulders.

  She didn't seem aware of their ministrations, her mind miles away as she kept muttering to herself and whispering, "No."

  Quinn buttoned up his waistcoat and jacket while Perkins worked his usual magic and made him good enough to step out in public. They abandoned hope with his hair, especially since Ianthe's impassioned grip had made it stand practically on end. The butler smacked Quinn’s top hat down hard and then gave it an extra push to wedge it into place. Quinn half expected him to nail it on as a farrier would a horse's shoe.

  He led Ianthe outside to the waiting carriage and handed her up. Perkins spoke to the jarvey, and soon the driver cracked his whip and sent them rumbling along the road. The carriage wheels seemed to find every hole along the way—not that Quinn minded, as it gave him an excuse to hold Ianthe close. She sat in silence the entire ride. Her hands curled around her small reticule as though the little item had become a lifeline. Her cheek rested against his jacket and he wondered what maelstrom consumed her thoughts. Was there a tiny portion spared for him, or was it all devoted to Alice and what state the woman might be in?

  The hackney took them northward, past the ancient London wall and out to Moorfields. The quiet countryside was home to the sprawling complex that housed the Bethlehem Royal Hospital. Construction had begun on a brand new facility at St George's Fields, but it was not yet complete. Instead, the mentally unwell and those Unnaturals too bizarre to move among society were housed in a decrepit building that was tumbling down around them. Not a wall remained properly vertical, nor were the floors level; it was as if the insanity of the inhabitants had infected the very stones and structure. Not that it was their fault. Rather, the long, narrow building had the misfortune to be constructed over the Town Ditch, a known rubbish dump, with little foundational support for the walls. The entire structure was sinking back into the soil. The whole of England just hoped the new one was finished before this one disappeared into the bowels of Hell and took the residents with it.

  "Even the building is forlorn.
This place looks as though it has given up hope," Ianthe said.

  Quinn paid the jarvey and asked him to wait for the return fare. He took Ianthe's arm and they walked under the crumbling portico, through the front doors.

  Within, a man sat at a large desk. He had broad shoulders in his white jacket and a dark shadow clung to his chin. He raised weary eyes and narrowed his gaze at them. "Can I help you?"

  "We've come to visit Alys Sheppard," Quinn said. He tucked Ianthe by his side. His wolf took one sniff of the place and its hackles rose. Inside, a low growl echoed in his gut as every instinct screamed to shield her and protect her from the darkness that inhabited the shadows here.

  "You family?" The man rose up and up. Quinn stood just over six feet, and he had to look up at the monstrous man. He appeared more mountain than man, and a cold trickle ran down Quinn's spine. What manner of inmates eked out their sorry lives in the hospital, if they needed staff this enormous to control them? Were there Unnaturals like him, chained up in windowless cells?

  On closer inspection, the guard's white uniform was stained and grimy. Around his waist he wore a wide leather belt with a collection of jangling keys hanging at one side.

  "My wife's sister," Quinn replied. "We only recently learned she was a resident here."

  He grunted, but seemed satisfied with their scant explanation. "This way."

  He approached a set of double doors and pulled them open, which set free a sound like the wail of a cold wind. As it brushed over them, a shudder ran through Quinn’s body, and then Ianthe's.

  Quinn paused on the threshold. His wolf rebelled at stepping over it into the waiting hell. Things were not as they seemed at the asylum, and his inner beast warned him to be alert. "How many souls are confined here?"

  The mountain shrugged one shoulder. "Not so many these days. Doctors want to reduce numbers before we move. Only a hundred and twenty in our care now."

  Quinn bit his tongue. Poor bastards. Each and every one of them.

  20

  Ianthe

  * * *

  Ianthe paused, cast a quick look at Quinn, and then stepped into the dim corridor. It stretched before them like the entrance to Purgatory. There were no windows such as a normal house contained, perhaps to stop the inmates from trying to fling themselves at the glass in an attempt to escape. High in the walls, near the ceiling, were long slits with stout iron bars that cast a watery pattern down to the worn floor. Mould clung to the skirting and stretched up the walls as damp reclaimed the building. Ianthe dared not stare too long, in case the mould separated from the timber and became a distinct being, intent on dragging her down to its stagnant home.

  She thought the sight might finally prove useful and give her an image of what she would find behind Alice's door. But the mage-blooded curse abandoned her at the doorway. Perhaps the noise drove it from her body—the constant wail which arose from demented minds trapped in personal hells with no exit or relief. Then the smell nearly drove Ianthe running back down the shadowy corridor. The pungent aromas of sweat, urine, and excrement were overlain with what could only be called desolation.

  If she hummed songs to herself, she could almost blot out the soul-rending cries, but there was no escape from the smell. It seeped into her body, clawed down her nostrils, and made every step heavier, until she wondered how she could go on. Her soul trembled under the assault and she wondered how the inmates and staff bore it. Badly, judging by the surrounding conditions.

  Quinn became the centre of her world and gave her the strength to keep walking toward Alice and the secrets only she could tell. If she turned her head into his jacket, his fresh scent wrapped around her and erected a barrier from the assault waged by Bedlam on her senses. It soothed her, to know he would shelter her no matter what lay at the end of the path.

  The guard paused at an iron door that was indistinguishable from its neighbours. Rusted rivets dotted the surface in a random pattern, accompanied by a square grille at face height, or chest height for the behemoth, who had to bend his knees to peer within. Satisfied he had the right room, he drew on the chain around his waist and pulled forth a large key. Once it was unlocked, he swung open the door and crossed his enormous arms, but remained in the corridor. Ianthe had the distinct impression that even such a big man was reluctant to venture any farther.

  Quinn stepped forward and looked within. "Which one?" he asked.

  The guard sighed and edged closer, but the toes of his boots never crossed into the room. He peered over the top of Quinn's head for a moment, and then pointed at someone out of Ianthe's sight. "That one. The skinny blonde. I'll wait out here."

  Quinn glanced back at her. His body still blocked the door and the sight that had drained the colour from his face. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  Did she want to look within? No. But she had to do it. For her, Alice, and however many other women Hoth used and discarded. "Yes. I have to see if it's truly her."

  He nodded and stepped to one side but stayed close to her, letting her know by his presence that he tackled this with her and she was never alone. With supreme effort Ianthe walked into the room with the soldier fast at her side.

  They both paused to take stock of the sad sight contained by the cold stone walls. In the much smaller space, the smell was worse due to being concentrated. The odour became another occupant, one that could grab you around the throat and make you choke on its presence.

  There were just three women in the room. A grey-haired woman with wild eyes was having an animated conversation with the wall, occasionally striking out with her fists, presumably when the wall said something she did not agree with. A long tail with a matted end stuck out from under her dirty shift and swept the floor. A second woman had dark hair that hung in tangled knots, which Ianthe's hands itched to wash and brush out. She paced back and forth, her movements jerky, as if someone were pulling her strings from above, and passed right by them without seeing them. Her eyes were clouded over as though she were blind, or simply lost to the world.

  The third resident was wrapped in muffled whispers, as though a soft wind enveloped her. She sat in the corner furthest from the door, her thin arms wrapped around her knees as she hugged them to her chest. She rocked back and forth, murmuring to herself. When Ianthe caught snatches of words, she realised it was a folk song, but the woman sang in a hushed voice as though afraid of being heard. Her blonde hair had been closely cropped without any care. In places, her scalp showed through where the blade had passed too close. She wore only a linen shift, the fabric dirty and stained and far too thin to provide any warmth.

  Despite the woman's feral condition, there was no doubt in Ianthe's mind that it was Alice. She instantly recognised the delicate bone structure and high cheekbones of her face, although her friend's large green eyes looked lost, her gaze adrift on an expansive ocean with no land in sight. Ianthe's heart ached that one of her sisters had ended up here, like this—from the bright lights, champagne, and expensive silk dresses, to become nothing better than a farm animal in a stall. In fact, she suspected a farm animal would be better tended.

  Ianthe looked around the room; there was no furniture, only two mattresses on the floor with thin wool blankets. At least the cell was not overcrowded, and someone had the decency to keep the men and women separated. Ianthe knelt on the floor next to Alice, but she skittered away a fraction, pressing herself further into the stone at her back. Quinn removed his jacket and spread it on the floor. Then he moved away, to watch and guard from the doorway, without overwhelming the vulnerable woman.

  Ianthe glanced up at him, whispered her thanks and then sat on the jacket, tucking her feet underneath her. She took shallow breaths, trying to ignore the noxious odours around her, and slowly reached out to place a hand on Alice's arm. The girl jerked, and her song silenced as she shrank away from the touch. Ianthe took up the tune where she left off, and murmured the last verse over and over until Alice relaxed, just a fraction. Finally, the damaged courtesan raised
her head and, in the barest whisper, finished the song with Ianthe.

  "Alice, it's Ianthe. Do you remember me? We are sisters, of sorts." She found herself whispering. There was something about the solemn building that made you want to keep quiet and not attract attention.

  "Sisters?" Alice turned her head and stared at Ianthe from large, haunted eyes. Her face was too thin and her cheekbones were so clearly defined they seemed etched in stone. But her eyes were the same clear green of vibrant spring growth on trees, only with a slighter darker ring at the outer edge.

  "Yes. We are the same, you and I." Dear God, what had Hoth done to her? Is this what a soul eater did, pull a woman's very essence from her form, leaving behind an empty shell? Where was the once-vibrant and vivacious girl who’d had legions of men at her feet? Ianthe remembered the summer Alice had arrived in London, so bright and beautiful. She laughed freely and often back then, and possessed such a caring nature to complement her beauty that everyone assumed a noble would snatch her up as a wife.

  "Alice is hiding, so the master cannot find her. I tried to be a good girl like he wanted, but it hurt. Hiding is much better. He cannot hurt you if you hide." She spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out, and then she fell quiet. Her gaze darted around the room. Looking. Watching. Her eyes widened on seeing Quinn at the door, and she tucked herself behind Ianthe, to escape his calm gaze.

  Ianthe wished she could guess what was running through the girl's mind, and how to ease her burden. "I also struggle to be good, and sometimes I am bad."

  Quinn snorted and she shot him a look and held a finger to her lips, hushing him.

  "The others were good, but I was bad." Alice reached out and grasped Ianthe, her long fingers wrapped tightly around her forearm. A sob broke from Alice and tears welled up in her eyes. "You must do as master says, or he will punish you. I tried to do as he said, but it hurt, Ianthe. Oh, how it hurt as he pulled the pieces from me. Promise me that if you cannot be good you will hide."